The village is on a high ridge, with a path up to it that strips the waterfall ascent of all challenge. A thousand feet, Jericho reckons, as he climbs into the song of the kundus. At the top, rather than open out like Obi’s village onto what is, now Jericho comes to think of it, more a small plateau than a ridge, this village occupies a narrow area of flat not much larger than a football pitch, the earth dropping away steeply on all sides. Beyond, an amphitheatre of peaks.

When the gate opens, they are welcomed in by dancers holding banners of bark-cloth that move in time to their steps. Everything seems large. The plumes, the headdresses, the size of the ceremonial hangings, the peaks of the mountain. Was he here as a child? Is this where the giant people of his dreams come from, with their hoofed feet? Round the ankles of the dancers are small skirts of grass and herbs, seeds that rattle and sing. He takes off his boots and his legs tremble as he circles the dance ground, his mind a blur, given over to sensation – the feel of the earth – following the dancers, his feet advancing and retreating to a rhythm as deep in him as his heart, until at last he is sitting on someone’s platform. For a moment it looks as if he has six toes. One of them is black. Hector holds a cigarette to it, and they watch as the huge, full leech falls, oozing blood. ‘Ah, man,’ Hector says. ‘Boots are good. Next time you bring them for me. Brother, man.’ Tobacco is passed around in a bamboo pipe as the light fades, turning the peaks soft, a bluish lavender. Jericho lies back on the mat and slips towards sleep.

Obi prods him awake. The old chief Nelson is sitting cross-legged beside him. Earlier he stood in the dance ground on a raised pulpit of saplings, talking fast, too fast for Jericho to get the words, but he understood their meaning, heard the voice of welcome to this next village of the mountain, source of life and art, walking and learning, walking to hear, walking to see. The ancestors give us Leonard. We give you to Leonard. And now you return. Ancestor gift. The child who left us, who we called Jericho, has returned, the man who can make a great noise, blow down the walls. Jericho, the name from the ancestor story of Leonard. And now the duvahe is sitting here, murmuring quietly to Jericho, his pig’s tusk necklace hanging over the folds of his chest. His eyes are soft. ‘Ai, Jericho. You are here. Rovane.’ Tears stream over the ancient ridges of his face.

The next morning Jericho wakes early and goes for a pee. He stands at the edge of the village, which is also the edge of the ridge. There are wisps of cloud in the valley, and birds of paradise in the trees. Their plumes are a darker red than those he’s seen in the forest below. They fluff out their tail feathers, preening, it seems, just for him. He walks quietly towards the house so as not to disturb them, and asks Hector their name.